The Sound of a Few Words Ringing
by Dash Janner IV
Summary: The memoirs of a Saiyan writer, rescued as a child from the ruin of Vegetasei by an enemy reservist. Rutabaga makes great sacrifices to assimilate into his adopted society, only to discover that it is teetering on the brink of a violent revolution.
1. Translator's Note

Note: None of the characters in Akira Toriyama's Dragonball Z Universe belong to me, Dash Janner. You may read this story and decide that it takes place in an alternate universe. However, I prefer to think that the narrator experiences the Dragonball Universe as a place populated by countless real, ordinary people . They have culture and politics that are affected by the cataclysmic events of the 700's in accordance with the official timeline: the emergence of Frieza as a conqueror, the kidnapping of Vegeta, the destruction of Vegetasei, and the growth and collapse of Frieza's empire. Dragonball Z presents events in black and white. Here, they are a murky shade of gray.

-Jänner

**Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing**

_The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi_

_A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin_

**Translator's Note**

Dear Reader,

The memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi were originally published in monthly installments in the weekly magazine, _Ti'mlal ( The Messenger)_ from 768 to 769_. Ti'mlal_ currently has a circulation of over one and a half billion copies on Korud'sei and abroad. Urmonaxi's writings were later complied into a single volume in 770, _The Sound of a Few Words Ringing, _which has sold seventeen million copies in five languages. It is regarded as one of the great literary works of this century, and it is my hope that you will find as much inspiration in his journeys as I have.

One of the few surviving members of the Saiyan race, Urmonaxi's ability to adapt and forgive is impressive, as is his resilience in the face of terrible strife. He is both observer and participant in recent history, an unsung hero of our generation.

I am pleased to bring Urmonaxi's autobiographical work to you in English, while preserving the original beauty of his words. There are many instances in which I chose to use the original Korud'go or Saiyago words in place of an insufficient English translation. Names of people and places are approximate, since many sounds in Korud'go do not exist in English or in any other Chikyuu language. In most instances, the surnames of Korud'jin precede the given name, which may have two or more parts. To retain the authenticity of the translation, I left the characters' names in their original order.

Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi currently lives in the old capital city of Korud-Xibal with his wife and children, where he lives a modest life teaching poetry and literature. I consulted with him before the publication of this book, and he denies that his work is any great achievement.

I think that you will wholeheartedly disagree.

Sincerely.

Peter "Dash" Jänner

Momotaro Publishing Corp.


	2. Someplace To Begin

**Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing**

_The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi_

_A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin_

**I.**

**_Din Tuku'si Erd_ : Someplace to Begin**

Six days a week, I lecture on selected works of poetry to packed halls of students at King Korudo Public College for Practical Arts and Agriculture. Other trades are more profitable for an educated man, but my adopted people are in great need of learning after the darkness of too many wars. A short time ago, I used words as weapons. Today, I heal with them.

The school was once the king's armory, and it was later a detention center for captured militia during the period of civil strife. The students bring a new energy to this dark place, their questions burning brighter than the flouresecent tubes that flicker overhead. The ghosts are now few and silent. We have paid our debts to the dead.

My students are not at all alarmed to see a Saiyan standing before them, tough and weathered like an old stone. Like theirs, my face and hands are tattooed in the traditional manner. I speak without an accent, and claim a through and complete knowledge of Korud'go, a language that was once strange to me. My hair is short and neat, the tangled mane of my childhood shorn and buried long ago. Indeed, I might be mistaken for an ordinary citizen, for all the marks of my heritage have been erased by decades of pretending.The truth is hidden in plain sight.

Of my students, about half are working men, between twenty and thirty, who provide the manpower for the manufacturing industries that have flourished since the dissolution of the monarchy. One quarter are young men raised in the country, the sons of farmers and fishermen. They are second, third, and fourth sons sent forth to rebuild what their parents destroyed. One eighth are women, who study with limitless courage and enthusiasm. It is difficult to challenge tradition, but they are often my strongest students, eager to prove themselves in a realm once forbidden to them. The rest are older men, who have spent most of their adult lives fighting and working to no particular end. They write in a wobbly, childish hand, long out of practice.

One afternoon, I read a poem written more than five hundred years ago by the Saiyan, Makadamia. I found that I could not understand the original text better than my students could. After many years, I had forgotten my mother tongue, once a source of comfort. I read the poem phonetically, and then, a loose translation in familiar_ Korud'go_.

_Where I go, my tail does follow me, _

_And all of my troubles follow it, _

_And so my tail does burden me, _

_But yet, I would not sever it!_

Like most anything that remains from Vegetasei, it has an obvious crudeness. Its rhythm is simple, its rhymes abrasive, yet it has a casual humor, the echo of a drinking song.

A murmur spread throughout the room , like a rustling of dry leaves, then settled.

A wiry young man, about twenty, who had been sitting on a window ledge, stood up defiantly.

" _Teacher, sir. Why have you no tail_?" he asked, mockingly. The class laughed uneasily. The choice of a poem in a long-dead language seemed absurd to the younger students, an unwelcome reminder of their parents' and grandparents' misdeeds and suffering. Unware of my orgins, the young man only intended to insult my politics and perhaps, to gently ridicule my constant emphasis on literary obscurities.

Just then, the great victory bell at the center of the old capital rang loudly, signaling the end of the day. The sun had already set, and the students cleared the hall, heading for home in the dim light of evening.

I read the words of Makadamia aloud, again and again into the night. I imagined that I still understood. There was a chance that I had heard these words once before, when I was small. Or perhaps I only wished it to be so.

And so the school, which was once an armory, which was once a prison, fell into darkness again. The bell rang to mark the midnight hour, but I did not hear it. I had fallen into a deep sleep, lulled by the sound of a few words ringing.

When I awoke at the dawn of the next day, I began to write all down of the things I could remember.

At the top of a clean sheet of paper, I wrote my forgotten name.

_Rutabaga Vegeta._


	3. A Piece of The Sun

**Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound Of a Few Words Ringing**

_The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi_

_A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin_

**II.**

**A Piece of the Sun: **_** Xald-so na Ulkat'ta**_

My name was _Rutabaga Vegeta._

I was born on the last day of the year 728, the son of Prince Konnyakku of Vegetasei and his third wife, Endifu. I was one of nine children, and the fifth of six brothers. Of my siblings, only one, the youngest, has survived to the present day.

My natural father, deeply concerned with matters of security, once commanded me to memorize the information on my personal documents. I was quite young then, perhaps five, and reading the tiny print and long lists of numbers seemed an insurmountable task. I wrote the words again and again in a little red copybook and read them aloud to the statues in the courtyard, a pair of scowling stone monkeys with clenched paws. I recieved a small purse of coins as a reward for my compliance, which, counted together, were worth little more than a box of matches or a handful of candies. This was the only gift I would ever recieve from Prince Konnyakku, who had, until then, invested nothing in my education and development. Five sons of better stock were to inherit my father's fortune and his titles. The prince, therefore, had no reason to solicit my love or loyalty. I kept the purse at the bottom of a drawer, believing naively that this was a symbol of his great affection.

While my father contributed greatly to my unhappiness in those days, my mother could do nothing to help earn back his favor. By the time I was six, she had quietly descended into madness, leaving only a decaying body that housed an unsound mind. My mother sat still and limp as a straw doll for days at a time, staring vacantly into the courtyard through the picture window. Often, she reached over to sniff a glass vial she kept on her dresser. The potent drug took her to a place where time did not matter. Here, she could wander freely in the maze of her sad history, talking aloud to phantoms only she could see.

My mother was my father's half-sister, my grandfather's daughter by a concubine of questionable ancestry. The old king was kind, but foolish, and suggested that my mother marry his second son, elevating her to wealth and respectability. In truth, he may have sensed her fragility, and sought to save her from a life of servitude. My father, young and arrogant, did not agree to the match until my grandfather was near to death. After my grandfather was buried, my father married Edamame, the daughter of a general, instead. After this, he was engaged to Kokka, a distant cousin, and openly denied that he had ever agreed to wed my mother. It was said that the mad daughter of a loose woman was an unfit bride for any man of the noble class, and my father would not shame himself in order to honor an old man's wishes.

Desperate, my mother approached Kokka, who was only a child herself, at the wedding celebration. She consoled the terrified bride, and made a fateful proposition. While Kokka slept soundly in my mother's quarters that night, my mother took the girl's place in my father's bed. Afterwards, to avoid a scandal, he had no choice but to give my mother the title of third wife. The servants enjoyed telling this story among themselves, laughing at my father's foolishness.

"_That drunkard! So intoxicated, he couldn't tell the difference between a woman and a child underneath him! It's a wonder he even found the bed!_"

Left to wander the royal compound most of the day, I was glad to have the company of my cousin, Vegeta the Younger. He was a rather stout, rough looking boy about three years my junior. He didn't speak often, but was prone to using his fists to lord over his playmates. When he and I played adventure games, I was made to act the part of the prisoner, the work animal, or the slave despite the difference in our height and age. He led me around the gardens, tied to a wheelbarrow. He ordered me to eat compost sandwiched between stale crackers. He glued my fingers to a bench with industrial adhesive. As miserable as our playtime was, Vegeta was the only other child who would acknowledge me. The others feared that I took after my mother, and had been told to avoid me. Because he was my first and only friend, I did not dare protest his cruelty.

My father paid me little mind, and saw no reason to defend me from my cousin's abuses. It was not Prince Konnyakku's way to strike or shout at those who displeased him. Instead, he ignored them until they disappeared. He allowed me to follow him silently while he monitored the progress of his elaborate strategies, without so much as a backward glance of recognition. I remember the angry red of my father's cloak and the sound of his boots on the marble floors._ Tap. Click. Tap. Click._ When I see soldiers marching in a parade, or a lost child wandering through a crowd, I am reminded of him.

When Vegetasei abruptly began to lose the war against the Korud-jin and their mercenaries, my father finally left the palace to lead the defense effort. While he was away, I dreamed of vast armies meeting in the courtyard among the hedges. The chaos of battle occupied my thoughts, and I foolishly wished for the opportunity to prove my worth with violence. As a heroic warrior, I would be praised by all who scorned me, and my father would be proud to count me among his sons.

A few days after my ninth birthday, which came and went with little fuss, my father was taken prisoner and executed. His head and tail were sent to my uncle, King Vegeta, in a cardboard box. Vegeta the Younger, who claimed to have witnessed this, recounted that my father's thick hair had been shaven clean and his scalp painted with strange ritual designs. His eyes had been gouged out, his ears cut off, and the skull filled with wax. By severing the head and destroying the means by which it could sense the living world, the spirit of the deceased could never return to avenge itself.

Thus, the aristocracy entered an official period of mourning. My mother rubbed ashes on her face and hands, as was customary. She did not weep, but instead stared vacantly at a water stain on the wall for many days. The servants tried to feed her at first, but she refused nourishment. I wet her lips with a spoonful of water, but it only dribbled down her nightdress.

The day my mother died, she woke me in the wee hours of the morning, unexpectedly alert, but unable to speak. She wore formal court dress, arranged haphazardly as if she had readied herself in a hurry. I remember the thinness of her body beneath her heavy garments, quivering nervously and stumbling as she walked. She seemed unnaturally cheery, despite her frailness. Her mind had shattered long ago, but perhaps she was inspired by some memory of joy.

We walked in the gardens before the sun rose, hand in hand. She smiled and nodded at the skeletal trees as if they were old friends, mouthing words with no sound. We returned at dawn, just as the yellow moon began to fade in the early light. She kissed my forehead, and I disappeared beneath the covers, too sleepy and confused to ask questions.

Later that morning, Edamame stormed into our apartments, my half-brother Apuru squirming under one arm. I was startled awake as she whirled through my bedroom into my mother's private quarters. I had not shaken the sleep from my eyes before I heard a terrified shriek tear through the walls of the house. The child began to bawl, a door slammed, and the sound of hurried footsteps faded as she fled.

Edamame returned to fetch me in the afternoon, after the servants carried my mother's body out of her apartments under a white sheet. Apuru was quiet, tied to her back with his thumb in his mouth. Edamame grabbed my wrist, but I ran from her, and dove into the room my mother had died in. I knew Edamame would not follow me, the vision of my mother's corpse still fresh in her mind. I locked the door.

On top of the dressing table was my mother's precious vial, emptied of its contents. A thin film of green powder clung to the surface of the dark wood. I lay on the floor in the impression of her body, tracing the interlocking patterns of the carpet with my tail until I fell asleep.

My mother had carefully chosen the day of her death. Enemy troops gathered in the courtyard and dragged the occupants of the compound into the gardens while I slept. My mother's rivals, once proud and haughty, shrieked and struggled, trampling the foliage as they cursed their murderers. The shrill cries woke me, and I curled my body beneath the window ledge, fighting the urge to look out.

I was slowly overwhelmed by a vile odor, like tar burning and meat cooking, an unfamiliar scent that violated my senses, and churned my stomach. I vomited, my heart racing, throat squeezed tight by fear. A deep rumble rose up beneath me, as if the house itself had been called to life. The ceiling cleaved in two above me, and the glare of the noon sun streamed in through the fracture. Then, I saw only black.

I was next aware of being carried, and awoke on a cot in a dark tent, my ears ringing, my vision blurred. I had been covered loosely by some women's clothing that looked eerily familiar, limp and deflated without their wearers. Apuru was nestled beside me wrapped in a man's shirt, unscathed but frightened into silence. Vegeta lay on a stretcher, face red and swollen, skin raw and oozing, fingers black with soot. His eyes flickered open and closed quickly as if he were trying to wake himself from a dream. All of his cruelty had been repaid a hundredfold.

I recognized the smell of burnt flesh again, and my stomach jumped into my throat. Mercifully, my insides were empty. A pulsing pain spread from the base of my spine, up to my ears. I could not feel any sensation in the length of my tail, only an eerie awareness of its presence. I reached into the back of my torn nightshirt and felt only a moist stump covered by a dressing. My hand stunk of ointment. I began to cry bitterly and tore at my bandages.

Some time later a menacing stranger emerged through the flap in the tent, followed by several helmeted attendants. I could not decide whether the stranger was a man or a woman. The stranger spoke a language that sounded like game birds squawking, shrill, grating and dissonant. An erect posture and commanding demeanor suggested that this individual was in charge of the others. I decided that the stranger was a man, for no woman could be so imposing. I would encounter Tem Zarbon's bawdy caricature in newsprint hundreds of times in the next decade. I am quite certain that he and the androgynous stranger were one and the same.

I held my breath, certain they had come for me, but they were not interested in the son of a third wife. The life of Vegeta the Younger was worth a great deal more than mine. Thinking back on this now, I have come to believe that my insignificance was my salvation.

The attendants lifted Vegeta, who had begun to squirm feverishly, onto a gurney and followed the stranger out into the courtyard, now strewn with rubble. The last man, breathing heavily, pushed my only playmate out onto the cobbles, and the rattle of the wheels vanished into the distance._ Clunk. Clunk. Clunk_.

Time seemed to accelerate, the seconds racing past until my surroundings became a muddled blur. Even now, I cannot trust my memory of these events. I may have slipped in and out of consciousness for days, or perhaps had only cowered there for a few excruciating hours.

When it was night and the tent had been plunged into darkness, Apuru began to whine, not like a child, but like a feral animal, abandoned by his mother and all who had cared for him. I swore that I would protect him as best I could, forgetting the rivalry forged by our father's egotism.

The tent flap opened and a dim gas lantern emerged, followed by an arm and the huge shadow of a creature with great horns that grew from both sides of its head. Apuru gurgled. I nearly screamed, but thought better of it.

The creature raised the lantern to his and I saw that he was only a man, but a man unlike any man I had ever seen. The man took off his horned helmet. His pale face was tattooed with beautiful and curious patterns. Dark vertical lines that stemmed from his forehead continued over his eyelids and ended at the base of his thick neck. Tiny blue-black dots made a path across his face from ear to ear, following the outline of the cheekbones under the skin. His eyes were kind and gray, with tiny wrinkles radiating from the corners. His filed canine teeth gleamed a savage white. In the yellow light of the lantern, I felt warm and safe, as if this man carried with him a piece of the sun.

" Boy, what is your name?" He spoke my language softly and haltingly, as if the words themselves had a bitter taste. The man nodded encouragingly, but my words were lost, my tongue limp and tangled.

The man sighed. " It does not matter." he said. He scratched his temple, thinking. His fingers had been stained blue to the second joint, callused palms covered in a maze of interwoven coils that continued onto the underside of his wrist.

" I have heard that you are a brave young man, watching over your brother so diligently, despite your injuries. You have nothing to fear from us any longer, " the man said. He spoke very stiffly, unfamiliar with the nuances of my native language. "We must decide what is to be done with you and your brother, If you will allow me to advise you." He put his hand on my shoulder, and I flinched, unsure if the the stranger was trustworthy.

"My father is the master of many fields in a place called_ Urmon_, where it is beautiful and green. There is a deep river at the edge of it, and a house on a hillside. That is my home, and in a short time I will return to it."

I leaned towards him. "Do your wives live there?" I asked, quite certain that a husband could not be shared peacefully between women.

The man seemed perplexed for a moment, then laughed. " No. my _wife_ lives there. She is very happy that I am coming home soon, because it has been a year since we have seen one another. "

"Do you have any children?" I wondered aloud.

The man sighed. "We have no children, but we have long wanted a pair of fine boys to be our sons. It is indeed fortuitous that we have crossed paths."

Apuru coughed. I could choose a better future for him, and what had come before would not matter. He would have no memory of this day. I felt as if I had been born into the darkness of that tent, a spirit boy who had sprung up from a pile of old clothes, motherless, fatherless, homeless, nameless. My wounds, fresh and painful a moment ago, were like old bruises. I wanted to go to the green fields, to the river, to the house on the hillside. I wanted to go to the woman waiting there, for the man, for my brother, for me.

" I am called Jann-Run. " said the man. "All that is mine will someday be yours."

The man took us out of the tent, my brother carried high on his wide shoulders. Together we faced the chill of night, surrounded by the charred remains of a brief and lonely life. But I was no longer afraid, for in my hand I carried a piece of the sun.


	4. Spoils of War

**Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing**

_The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi_

_A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin_

**III. **

**Spoils of War : _Fen'pir Ad-ar Tird _ **

The halogen lights that loomed over the runway eclipsed my yellow lantern as we approached the leveled city block that had become a landing strip for transport vessels. Like a swarm of nocturnal insects, the black shapes of soldiers seemed drawn over the horizon into the light.

There was a happy chattering noise that rose and fell as the waves of bodies gravitated towards the center, a thousand simultaneous conversations in a language I could not understand. These were the reserve troops of King Korudo, resplendent in their horned helmets and armor. They carried away chests of porcelain wrapped in plastic, brass curtain rods, sacks of vegetables and reams of paper, the trappings of everyday existence. Two thin men laboriously dragged an emergency generator on a makeshift travois. Another soldier pushed past, an enormous stone monkey from the palace gardens balanced perilously on a serving cart.

About a hundred meters into the crowd an impassioned voice rang out.

"_Em-Korudo kes' tol sama! Em-Korudo kes' tol lim! Em kes'til nimnima!" _The crowd echoed the soldier's cry. "Honorable is King Korudo! Merciful is King Korudo! Long may he live!"

Apuru smiled, proudly showing four new teeth. He curled his tail around Jann-Run's thick wrist and closed his eyes. He was quite content in unfamiliar arms, too young to be frightened so long as he was warm and had his thumb in his mouth. I regretted not knowing his date of birth, what he liked to eat, or whether he had begun to talk. We shared the same blood, but we were strangers just the same.

The ships seemed like great black kettles from a distance, round and dark, their great engines spewing a cushion of red flame beneath. Suddenly, a face and a pair of arms emerged from the mass of bodies and armor, plowing through the crowd excitedly in an effort to reach us_. " Jann-Run-iku! Jann-Run-iku!"_ There was a cacophonous clanking as an enormous man appeared with an upholstered chair and three shiny copper cooking pans strapped to his back.

The stranger began a frenzied exchange with Jann-Run, who shook his head intermittently, as if to say_, " No, you are mistaken"._ The stranger spoke quickly and nervously, taking regular gasps of air between thoughts like a swimmer between strokes.

Although the stranger seemed a great deal younger than Jann-Run, their faces bore the same tattooed markings. Indeed there was a strong resemblance between the two men, sharing strong chins, alert blue eyes, and a distinct bump along the bridge of the nose.

"_Ah, sem'x sul." _Jann-Run replied, again and again. _"Hen, Sem'x sul."_ The stranger pointed at my brother's tail in an accusing manner.

The words fluttered past me like a rain of feathers. I swatted at a familiar sound and lost it. I was mystified by vowels squashed flat or stretched like rubber, punctuated by consonants that clicked, hissed and sang like music. But the song of their rapport had a familiar refrain. "_O'zaru. Seiyan hibi'thi-O'zaru._"

_O'zaru. _Oozaru.Monster.

Jann-Run glared at the stranger. His lower lip crumpled in disapproval.

" _Den'em."_ He snapped.

The stranger was quiet until we boarded the transport together, prodded into the vessel by the crowd behind us. Disorganized, the soldiers poured into dim, narrow corridors, shoving one another against the walls, politely apologizing, swearing loudly, plugging their ears with their thumbs, sneezing, praying, and muttering to themselves. The stranger seized me by the collar_. "_This way. This way_. Ama'zul." _He grumbled.

The gate closed behind us, plunging the travelers into noisy darkness. My lantern bounced, flickered, and was snuffed out by a gust of air as the vessel roared to life. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and a sickly yellow glow illuminated the passage.

Finally, we stopped in an empty passenger compartment marked six hundred and thirteen. The stranger's heavy load occupied most of the bench beside me, the unwieldy chair propped up like a throne against the wall. Jann-Run, the stranger, and my brother sat facing me; the two men shoulder to shoulder, the child on Jann-Run's knee.

The stranger inspected me, reaching across the compartment to touch my hair, as if he fully expected to be bitten. When his right hand came near to my face, I noticed that the tips of his fourth and fifth fingers had been amputated at the joint. Raised, jagged scars cut across the designs tattooed on his hand, the beautiful geometry twisted and destroyed. We locked gazes like two feral cats patrolling the garden wall in the dark, unsure whether the creature staring back was a reflection or a spectre.

After an uneasy silence, the stranger said, " I am called Talarin, Talarin-Aliriki, the younger brother of Jann-Run." He smiled timidly, and then quickly hid his deformed hand behind his back. "I speak Saiyago, but not so well as my brother."

Although his size was impressive, Talarin's voice was thinner and less confident than his brother's, betraying his relative youth. _Talarin-Aliriki _sounded like a magical incantation, or the password that would open a cave of treasure. It was the name of a complicated man within whom secrets were buried deep.

To break the silence, Jann-Run began to sing an off-key rhyme to my brother; a song so old and oft sung, its meaning had long been forgotten:

_Fly to the river,_

_Where the monkeys fish for golden beads, _

_They sleep like rocks on the sandy bottom, _

_Singing songs of meat and cheese._

_Fly to the ancient city, _

_Where the King and Queen eat week-old bread_

_I'll stay on the roof and catch clouds in a basket_

_And serve them with sugar instead._

After the second verse, the door of the compartment slid open. A decrepit old man, wrinkled and purple-brown like a preserved prune loomed in the entrance. His hair was silvery white and hung in long, matted locks laced with feathers, shreds of colored cloth, and the brittle claws of a small animal. He wore a frayed black tunic, his thin ankles and wrists protruding from his heavy garment like twigs. His lower lip had been stained dark with a blue pigment, giving his puckered mouth the appearance of a badly drawn line between his nose and his chin.

The old man held out a package wrapped in crisp waxed paper and white string. _"Ub'ha, Ub'ha, Kilomela. Kilomela, Ub'ha." _he said, encouraging me to take it. "U_b'ha, Ub'ha." _His voice was grainy, deep and wise.

An expression of profound sadness crossed Jann-Run's face. His lip quivered like a woman's when she swallows her tears. He said, " Take it, Kilomela. Take it, son." I turned the package over in my hands. The old man smiled, his teeth yellowed and broken.

When I answered to his name, Kilomela became me. Or perhaps, I became him. Like the flame of the gas lantern, Rutabaga was snuffed out in a single breath. _Kilomela. Kilomela. Kilomela. _I sang to myself. _Kilomela, son of Jann-Run._

Talarin produced a wad of crisp paper money printed in red and blue. He bowed his head and offered this to the old man. The old man shook his head and chucked.

" _Nana. Ix-nana." _ He pushed the money back towards Talarin, who seemed dismayed. Jann-Run lowered his head. "_Kaneb-no'n. Sunno Kami."_

The contents of the package were soft and warm. A delicious spicy smell wafted from them and reminded me that my stomach was empty.

"_Nana. Jann-Run, Nana" _ Said the old man. He touched the steel door lightly with his index finger and it slid open, as easily as if it had been a paper screen. The old man hobbled out, and the door slammed shut with a mighty boom that set the cookware clanking and nearly toppled the chair.

Talarin folded the wad of bills and tucked them beneath his chest plate. I did not know it then, but he had offered the man the whole of his service pay, thirty-nine_ b'an_. This sum may be exchanged for a single gram of gold at the current market value, or, in simple terms, a meager four loaves of bread.

"Open it please." Talarin implored. "Sunno Kami has brought us good things to eat. He makes _senzu-apo, _special fried bean cakes that restore health and energy."

I untied the string and peeled apart the layers of paper. Inside were three greasy brown fritters, crispy dough on the outside, a paste of white beans, dried fruit and orange-red flakes of pepper within. My eyes watered. The _ senzu-apo_ barraged my senses with its complex flavors, pungent odor, and delightful crunchiness. I felt as if every molecule in my weakened body had begun to vibrate, heat spreading from my gut to the tips of my fingers, my chest, my tired legs, the soles of my feet.

"I see your cheeks have color in them, " observed Jann-Run as I swallowed the last fiery bite. "Sunno Kami is very learned in these matters. He knows how to make a man whole again when he is broken."

"How old is he?" I asked, wondering if I would ever become so shriveled as Sunno Kami.

Jann-Run laughed. "Sunno Kami is older than the oldest tree, older than the river, older than a mountain, maybe. He was born before anyone thought of recording such things. Perhaps he does not even know this himself. My grandfather was very devoted to him in his day, but even when my grandfather was a child, Sunno Kami was an old man."

His face fell, and after a long pause, he continued. " My people still believe that the corpse of a person who has died an unnatural death is bad luck. Their ghosts will bring misfortune if they are not properly appeased. Sometimes they are reincarnated in new bodies when they cling to the mortal world. Sometimes angry ghosts possess family members. Sometimes they seek revenge. Sunno Kami came here to clean the bodies of the soldiers who died here, and to tell their souls to rise to heaven."

"Angry ghosts cause all sorts trouble," added Talarin.

My chest felt tight as I thought of my mother's body under a white sheet, black hair trailing across the carpet like dry tentacles as the servants carried her away. Would she forever cling to the rubble of the palace, trapped in waking dreams?

Talarin cradled his disfigured hand in his lap, and looked away from Jann-Run.

He said, " When babies die, Sunno Kami takes care of them too. That is the most terrible thing, when babies die. It is terrible for the mother and for the father and all of the people who loved the child. It is terrible for everyone who hears of it."

Apuru yawned. Jann-Run combed my brother's hair with his fingers, and sang:

_Fly high to paradise, O my beloved,_

_Where little boys have soft and golden wings _

_Fried bean cakes fall from purple trees_

_And possible are impossible things. _


	5. All Has Become Dust

**Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing**

_The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi_

_A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin_

**IV. **

**All Has Become Dust:_ Sinn em Kem Kanal'fes_**

_Mes-Dindala , _the great Dindala River, flows from the snowy peaks of the _Kilre-On _mountain range. From its source, it twists through the woodlands found in the northernmost region of the Korud homeworld, and gains speed as it plows a straight course through the plains of _Urmon. _It spills out into the desert, where it forks into the _Mes-Yar _and the _Mes-Kel. _It is the second longest river on any known world, traveling over eight thousand kilometers to the sea. In the rainy season, the Dindala floods, irrigating the farmland, and covering the streets of the old capital, _Xibal, _in water that is ankle deep.

When we arrived at the dock, the rowdy soldiers that had boarded the ship soon became a mob again. They shouted and pushed one another every which way through the gray, shallow water that had pooled on the platform, splashing and stomping in their eagerness to return home.

On the other side of the railing stretched a plane of umbrellas, brightly colored wheels made of painted wicker, wood, and resin. Against the white-gray sky, a rainbow of circles twirled about as if they had been stirred with a cosmic spoon. Under them, a multitude of women in dark, billowing dresses stood waiting, their long skirts hitched high to keep them from trailing in the water. Like the men, their faces were tattooed with extraordinary designs. A passing glimpse of a white thigh revealed another canvas for ritual decoration.

The rain sprayed down in torrents, rattling the metal roof of the shelter like a thousand tiny bells. My feet quickly became damp as Talarin lead me towards the railing. Jann-Run seemed to be searching for someone as he scanned the crowd. His feet were dry, and he walked quickly, lifting his knees high, while I trudged and shuffled, weighed down by wet boots. Talarin carried his chair above his head like a trophy. I grabbed a fistful of Talarin's sleeve, bobbing up and down through the crowd like a buoy tossed by the waves.

Talarin helped me over the barrier, then cleared the railing in a single, nimble stride. I hoped that someday I would be so long-legged.

The crowd began to dissolve as we made our way into the plaza. Apuru giggled and grabbed at the colorful parasols as we passed. Jann-Run spoke to him in his strange tongue, as if my brother were his natural child.

The Plaza of the Travelers, one of many in the old city, was surrounded by tall stone buildings. Saiyans are not great architects by any standard, but the Korud-jin seemed capable of bending the laws of physics, resting heavy stones on labyrinths of arches and columns that seemed as fragile as porcelain. Domes wrought of metal and glass rose into the sky, majestic hemispheres that shone in the dim light.

A statue of mythical proportions stood in the center of the plaza. A three-toed warrior with the head and body of a man, but the tail of a garden lizard had been decorated with garlands of tiny purple_ ki'ki_ flowers. In the rain, the white marble gleamed like fine crystal. The figure gazed upward with a benevolent smile.

"This is Prince Furiza, who led our troops to victory," explained Jann-Run." He is thought to be quite mad, and is not well liked among us. We fight only under the banner of the King, Korudo, who is good and wise. It is our loyalty to him that compels us to fight in Furiza's campaigns. A father's adoration is too often blind."

A number of soldiers had gathered around the statue's base. Each spat six times on the inscription below.

"What does it say?" I asked.

"_All hail Furiza-Korudsiki, the second son of the King, viceroy of Kanassa." _he read. _"All hail Furiza-Korudsiki, generous and humble leader of the Korud-jin."_

One of the soldiers swore loudly at the monument, and kicked the pavement, splashing the garlands with muddy water. I fought the urge to spit on the image myself.

A woman with a white umbrella stood in the shadow of the colonnade, seeking shelter from the rain. At first she did not see us approaching, but when she caught sight of us, she sprinted out into the storm, her umbrella left overturned in a pool of water.

Jann-Run quickly thrust my brother into my arms. Apuru wailed loudly at the loss of his lofty post, and reached over my shoulder towards Jann-Run, who towered above us.

The woman threw her arms around Jann-Run's neck and pressed her lips against his. My heart leapt into my throat. I had never seen men and women behave so intimately in public. The women I had known at the palace were only passionate in their misery and abject hatred of one another.

Talarin blushed. He set the chair and his cooking pans on the base of the statue, careful that the chair did not get wet.

The woman scooped up my brother and covered him with kisses. Apuru gurgled, happy once again.

"This is my wife," said Jann-Run. " She is called _Aiek-Hi, _Blessing-of-Fortune."

Aiek-Hi had a face as white and round as a moon, with black eyes like chips of flint, ignited by a primitive sensuality. Her chin and forehead were tattooed with a series of dots and coils, drawn in flawless symmetry. Dark hair was wound tightly about her head like a crown, plaited and pinned in an intricate wreath. Her wet, brown dress clung to the soft depressions of her body, unable to conceal the volume of her flesh.

Hesitantly, she said, _"Ku'a Mama, u'xal tak_. You may call me Mama, if you wish. That would make me very happy." From then on, Aiek-Hi, the blessing of fortune, became known to me as _Mama. _She never again spoke a word of Saiyago to me or to my brother.

Mama kissed Talarin on both cheeks, standing on her toes. She said something to him in their native tongue, and she produced three coins from her sleeve.

" We are going to get a new pair of boots. Those _Oozaru_ shoes are no good for the rainy season, " said Talarin, pointing at my feet. He took my hand and led me through the colonnade.

The overturned umbrella floated like a little white boat, impervious to the pedestrians that milled about the plaza.

The colonnade led into an enormous indoor market lined with small shops and kiosks. Garlands of_ ki'ki_ flowers decorated the window displays that advertised clothing, glassware, paper goods and tools. Many bright banners were illustrated with images of the wares for sale: wooden beams, flowers, knives and barrels of pickled vegetables.

I waited for a passerby to notice me and denounce me as an impostor, but all ignored my presence, preoccupied with their purchases. The shoppers haggled viciously with the merchants, shouting "_Han-ji'irn! _Too much_!" _and "_Tim'pol-a mo!_ You're cheating me!"

We ducked into a small shop with a red door. The merchant sat behind the counter, staring vacantly at a stack of yellowing, handwritten receipts. His wild hair was squashed flat on one side, a pen wedged behind his ear. The walls were lined with brown cardboard boxes tagged with symbols and numbers, a code understood only by the merchant.

"_Bidu!_" Talarin greeted the boot merchant and startled him from a daydream. The area surrounding the boot merchant's eyes had been tattooed black, a bizzare mask that could never be removed. He blinked a few times, and looked at Talarin. One pupil was larger than the other.

"_Bidu.Ta kor?" _asked the merchant, squinting.

Talarin pointed at me and said something to the man, prompting him to lean over the counter and stare at my feet. After a moment, the merchant scratched his chin. "_Tatta'bas,"_ he muttered, and disappeared into the rear of the shop.

He returned with a pair of blue rubber boots, lined in flannel. I took off my old boots and tried walking in the new ones. I spread my toes and wiggled them. Talarin clapped in praise. "_Meb Kil'a!_ Perfect!" He handed Mama's three coins to the merchant, who bowed deeply, glad that Talarin did not haggle over the price.

Talarin and I returned to the plaza, where Jann-Run, Mama, and Apuru waited in the shadow of Prince Furiza.

"Those are of the best quality to be found in the city," Jann-Run observed. "You will make good use of them."

I bowed to Mama in thanks, a behavior I had observed in both Talarin and the boot merchant. She leaned down and kissed the top of my head. I blushed.

From a balcony overlooking the plaza, a voice cried out. _"Bal Vegetasei han mad'da nim! Bal Vegetasei han mad'da nim! Furiza han nim Vegetasei!"_ A man in heavy armor stood five stories above the crowd. The pedestrians stopped in their tracks, and looked up quizzically. Mama gasped. For a long moment, the only sound in the plaza was the rain beating down on the stones.

My heart raced. _Vegetasei_.

The man shouted again "_Furiza han nim Vegetasei!" _Jann-Run clapped his hands over my ears. The crowd looked up at the monument, and up again at the man. The patrons of the indoor market had begun to trickle outside; first a few, then tens, then hundreds.

_"Bal Vegetasei han mad'da nim! Bal Vegetasei han mad'da nim! Furiza han nim Vegetasei!"_

Jann-Run grabbed the collar of my shirt. We hurried out of the plaza, through a network of alleys that led to the banks of the Dindala. I was quicker in my new boots, just able to keep step with long-legged Talarin.

"Do not look back, " said Talarin, out of breath, struggling to keep his balance while carrying the chair and the copper cooking pans that had made the long journey from Vegetasei. "Do not look back."

I looked back. Mama stumbled behind me with Apuru, her skirt tangled about her legs. There was a rumble, a creak, and a sound like the felling of a tree. People gathered on the roofs of the townhouses, and leaned out of the open windows, looking towards the source of the noise. The cry spread from house to house. "_Bal Vegetasei han mad'da nim! Furiza han nim Vegetasei!"_

The river had flooded the avenue, and many long boats with white sails had been moored to the trees that lined the sidewalks in the dry season. Their bare branches reached out of the shallow water like skeletal hands. Mama's boat carried us quickly down the river, away from the city. In the waters of the Dindala, bunches of tiny purple _ki'ki _flowers floated past, torn from celebratory garlands.

"Prince Furiza has destroyed Vegetasei, against the advice of his advisors." said Jann-Run, many kilometers downriver. "Many people are angry now, and perhaps rightly so. A prince should not act against the interests of his subjects."

"_But was it not already destroyed_?" I wondered aloud, remembering that the royal compound had been reduced to rubble.

Jann-Run fished a _ki'ki _blossom out of the current, and crushed it. " No, Kilomela. _Sinn em kem kanal'fes_. All has become dust."

As the city gave way to the countryside, the clouds began to clear. Little black birds, called _Kilomela _by the Korud-jin, flitted among the reeds on the banks of the Dindala. Ahead lay the plains and rolling hills of_ Urmon_, the place I still call home.


	6. Let It Be So

**Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing**

_The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi_

_A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin_

** V.**

_**De Xislid Ma: Let It Be So**_

The great house on the hill, the ancestral home of the Urmonaxi clan, was a sprawling two-story structure of brick and plaster with a tiled roof. The construction of the house, coincidentally, had begun in 211, the very same year that Makadamia wrote the oft-recited ode to his tail. As the family grew larger and more prosperous, newer wings and extensions had been successively added to the original structure. The architectural styles of these additions were oddly inharmonious; red bricks here, gray ones there, a chipping mosaic on the eastern roof brackets, steel latticework protruding from the windows facing west. Clotheslines were strung about the property like strings of festival flags, sheets and undergarments flapping in the breeze. A stunted tree with a network of exposed roots grew close to an open window, bent low as if it were trying to peek inside. Although the outer walls had been neatly whitewashed, the paint had begun to chip off ,revealing molding layers of yellow and brown beneath.

As Jann-Run, Mama, Talarin, Apuru, and I made our way up the hill, I felt as if I had walked this way many times before. The iron gate that protected the front entrance had been left ajar, and Jann-Run easily pushed open the wooden door behind it. I remembered the great care my mother had taken to lock the doors of her apartments on the rare occasion that she did go out. Saiya-jin did not trust easily, and kept their best possessions safe from the prying eyes and sticky hands of strangers.

We crowded into the vestibule, where approximately thirty umbrellas in various hues and sizes had been stacked against the wall, a puddle slowly spreading beneath them. Jann-Run, Mama and Talarin removed their muddy boots, and left them near the door.

"It is not proper to track mud inside the home," said Jann-Run. I arranged my new boots next to Talarin's worn ones. They were blue and shiny like a first-prize ribbon.

The spacious front room of the house was bare in comparison to my mother's parlor, but there was ample evidence of the household's activity strewn about the room. A card game had been set out on a low table, the hands of each player abandoned face down in each corner. Two dolls with thickets of braided hair sat upright in a basket, as if they had been enjoying an imaginary boat ride on the Dindala. Two newspapers, edges curling in the humid air, had been set down next to a pair of half-empty teacups.

Immediately, I noticed something irregular about the furnishings. Although there were rectangular cushions and woven mats arranged on the floor, there was not a single four-legged chair. I then realized why Talarin had taken such great care to ensure that the upholstered chair from Vegetasei arrived in Urmon undmaged. To him, an ordinary wooden chair was a source of great curiosity and a symbol of unattainable luxury.

"Follow me to the kitchen now." said Talarin excitedly. "Everybody is in the kitchen. We have interrupted the evening meal."

The kitchen was located at the center of the main house, connected to the other rooms by a network of passageways. The kitchen in a Korud-jin household is the center of family and social life. Relatives and friends filter in and out with news and complaints while small children bathe in the sink and their mothers bake bread.

Around a single long table that stretched from wall to wall were crowded no less than thirty-two strangers. They sat on mats with their legs folded under them, reaching for bowls of stew and plates piled high with rounds of flat, golden bread. Trays of pickled vegetables and whole fish, split open and bursting with steam, were passed in a clockwise fashion. Each diner had his or her own plate, but no utensils were used, save serving spoons. The tender flesh of the fish was eaten off the bone, and the stew scooped up with hunks of bread.

A roaring stone furnace heated an ancient brick oven so large that a man as tall as Talarin could stand up and lie down in it. Blackened iron kettles and pots hung from pegs on the walls. Salted fish, herbs and dried fruit were strung in colurful clusters on the ceiling. Open cabinets revealed sacks of salt, jars of spices, cans, canisters, and cellophane packets bearing bright labels with mysterious text.

I stopped in the doorway beside Mama and Apuru, intoxicated by the smell and the warmth and the beautiful noise of the kitchen. Apuru shrieked joyfully.

As the herd senses predators in its midst, the Urmonaxi clan immediately fell into a still silence. Thirty-two pairs of eyes stared at me accusingly.

The man at the head of the table stood up. He was in the autumn of his life, his arms made thick and sinewy by years of planting and harvesting. He wore a black tunic and a mustard-colored sash that sagged under his bloated torso. His feet were bare, revealing toes that were flattened and bent by years of walking long distances without shoes. Habitual consumption of black tea had yellowed his teeth, and two silver fillings gleamed above his lip where the enamel had rotted away.

The patriarch of the Urmonaxi clan, as well as all of the men present, bore the same ritual tattoos on their faces and hands, symbols of a common heritage. The patriarch kissed both Talarin and Jann-Run on their foreheads as they bowed to their father in greeting.

The patriarch turned his piercing gaze toward me, then looked at Talarin. Talarin looked at the patriarch. The patriarch looked at Jann-Run. Talarin looked at Jann-Run. Jann-Run looked at the patriarch and then at me. I looked at Mama. Apuru squeaked. I held my breath.

Apuru placed the end of his tail in his toothless mouth and drooled. He enjoyed the attention he was receiving from the crowd of onlookers.

The patriarch threw his head back and laughed. The kitchen exploded with sound, as the diners started arguing amongst themselves, shrugging, wagging fingers at one another and gesturing at my brother. Two small girls with tangled thickets of silvery hair began to chase one another around the table, stumbling over their skirts.

"_X'inda-ok-bat!"_ bellowed the patriarch. The children stopped their game. The adults abruptly fell silent again.

Jann-Run addressed the crowd. _"Yar Kilomela. Yar ma'i em, x'au tab. De xisilid ma." _

"_De xislid ma." _ echoed the patriarch. He placed one hand on my head and one on my brother's. "Let it be so."

The diners nodded, and clapped enthusiastically in agreement. Mama smiled broadly. I was offered a place at the table, between Jann-Run and the patriarch, who continued to preside over the meal like a jovial god, pleased by our arrival,yet ever watchful.

Apuru was immediately set upon by several women who squeezed his cheeks and fed him spoonfuls of porridge that dribbled down his chin. They watched his tail with fascination, as if it were a curious parasite that had attached itself to an otherwise ordinary child. Apuru banged on the new copper cooking pans with a spoon_. Ding.Ding.Ding._ Briefly, I worried that the adults would scold him for making so much noise, but none of them seemed to mind, having grown accustomed to the sounds of childhood play.

The patriarch plopped a whole fish onto my plate. Its flesh was flaky and delicious.

"You had best eat as much as you can." said the patriarch in _Saiyago. _Unlike Jann-Run and Talarin, he did not hesitate and stumble between words. "In three days we drain the fields, and this is no easy task. Your hands are still soft and unblemished. Tomorrow, this will change."

"I have never worked before." I admitted.

"You will watch us, and you will learn," he assured me, passing me a bowl of stew. "I know that you have strength in you. I see that you are not afraid of what you do not understand. This is uncommon in a boy of your size. Very rare indeed."

"I am not so young." I said, mumbling through a mouthful of stew.

The patriarch grinned. " You have the appetite of an Urmonaxi man. If you eat enough stew, you will someday grow as tall as Talarin." Although I was happy to oblige, I barely reached Talarin's shoulder when I had achieved my full height. In this respect, I remained a son of the house of Vegeta, a living tribute to physical mediocrity.

"Are all of these people your descendants?" I asked.

The patriarch chuckled. "_Nana, nana._ What a strange thing to say! Jann-Run and Talarin are my sons, and those two small girls are my youngest daughters. Those men over there are my three brothers and their sons. " He motioned to a group at the opposite end of the table. " And that is one of my first cousins, and his wife, and his daughter who is not yet married. We all trace our lineage to the male ancestor who built this house, and the right to live on this land passes from father to son. A great many of us choose live in the cities now, to find better work, to earn more money, to go to the universities, but an Urmonaxi man can always return here, to this table, and be an honored guest."

"Am I part of the Urmonaxi clan now? " I asked, hopefully.

Rutabaga Vegeta had always been kept separate from the others, an undesired child who belonged nowhere and to no one in particular. Kilomela was hard-working, wise, and knew that he would always call the house on the hill his home. I wanted to bury Rutabaga beneath a lifetime of daydreams and fabrications. Kilomela would be so content as a member of this ancient brotherhood, he would forget that he was once called Rutabaga. I stared into my lap, terrified that the patriarch would deny me.

"A boy is not counted among his elders until he has shown his commitment to the other members of his patrilineage," said the patriarch. "Perhaps you are clever as a whole man, but you only look like half of one." He winked. " No boy can become a man until he has endured the ordeal of _Oi._"

"_Oi?"_

The patriarch pointed to his face. "_Oi. _When a boy is ten years old, or perhaps older, his face and hands are tattooed with the marks that identify him as a member of his clan. It is truly a painful experience, but a man must sacrifice part of his individuality to gain strength and wisdom. A single blade of straw may break in the wind, but a well-bound bundle will not tear so easily."

Secretly, I was grateful to my cousin, Vegeta, for having been such a cruel friend. I knew I could withstand any test of loyalty.

" The day before the _Oi_ is the day a boy cuts his hair," he added. " A young man distinguishes himself by cutting away the symbol of his childhood."

When I arrived in Urmon, my hair was quite long, a dense thicket of ringlets that had been allowed to grow wild and matted according to the prevailing fashion. Saiyans believed that a man with long hair possessed strength and virility. The Saiyan noblemen had taken as much pride in their beards and mustaches as the women had their luxurious garments and jewels. The Korud-jin, greatly influenced by superstition, saw this same feature as a mark of childishness and impulsiveness. Both boys and girls were made to let their hair grow until they were ten. At this time, boys' hair was shorn and girls began to wear their hair in braids. For a long time, I did not understand the purpose of this odd tradition, but it was later explained by a friend who had once conducted a study on regional customs. In areas along the Dindala, certain river demons had been thought to gobble up young children. Hidden by tangled thickets of hair, Korud-jin children could not be distinguished from the offspring of their would-be abductors.

" I am already ten years old. " I lied. I was several months short of my tenth birthday.

" You are a little small to be ten." said the patriarch.

" I'll grow. I'll finish a whole pot of stew, and I'll grow." I insisted.

The patriarch smiled. " Very well, then." He turned to Jann-Run. "We shall cut his hair after the meal. I see no reason to delay. "

Later that night, I sat in the chair that Talarin had brought from Vegetasei , surrounded by all of the men in the house. I sat with my back pressed against the cushion, rigid with apprehension. Jann-Run tied my hair with a piece of string, and I heard the zing of a sharp blade slicing through the bundle of strands. My head suddenly felt light. When the rest of my hair had been cropped close to the head, I brushed the dark,curling snippets off of my clothing.

The men swept the hair into a cloth bag, careful to catch every strand that had fallen to the floor. Together, we dug a hole near the tree. At dusk, we buried my hair in the catacombs of its gnarled roots, among the rotting matter of old leaves and dried seed pods. We pounded on the earth until it was firm and packed again. We danced without music, the dull thumping of our bare feet keeping time with the ancient rhythm. _Bom-pada. Bom. Bom-pada. Bom._ I jumped and stomped until I had exhausted myself.

Because there were no spare rooms in the house, I was obliged to share a feather mattress with Talarin and two lanky young men named Tsi-Jann and Kalis-Peis. Tsi was the eldest son of the patriarch's youngest brother. Kalis was the second son of the second brother. For seven years, we would each claim our quarter of this bed, preferring to share uncomfortably than to allow one of the others to sleep on the floor. We lay head to foot, foot to head under a single quilt, embroidered with a wreath of reeds,_ ki'ki_ blossoms and black _kilomela_ birds.

When I try to lull myself to sleep after a long day at the college, I remember the familiar chorus of their snoring, three motors whirring and grunting into the night.


	7. Dream of The Flightless One

Dear Reader: I'm sorry to say that the text of this chapter has become unreadable due to an unforseen error with the text editor and a computer crash. A new version, (essentially identical to the old one) will be posted in place of this notice on the night of Thursday, 8 August 2007 EST. Unfortunately, this chapter, "Dream of the Flightless One" is instrumental to events that will occur after Chapter 11, and I must be sure that my old backup version is properly updated and proofread before I can repost. I apologize again to anyone who began reading after 6 August 2007, when the error first occured. Please feel free to contuinue with the story after the issue has been resolved. -Peter Dashiell Janner IV 


	8. Earth and Paper

**Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing**

_The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi_

_A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin_

**VII.**

**Earth and Paper : _Kalon ma Om'yattu_**

The patriarch put me to work, true to his word, as soon as the worst of the healing was over. The war had come to a dramatic end, the soldiers had returned, and the drama of ordinary life was expected to continue. It had been thought that the violence brewing in the capital would never reach Urmon, a place that hardly encountered change of any sort. Three hundred years earlier, the region would have seemed much the same, save the delivery trucks that rolled along the main road from time to time. Even then, the mud slowed the tires to a labored crawl. The land itself fought progress with all of its might.

Urmon's rich, dark soil was ideal for the cultivation of _xa'k_, the staple grain from which the common variety of flour is made. All of the labor is done by hand, the average estate requiring five man-hours per acre for two thousand acres over the course of a year. The patriarch and his ancestors had not chosen an easy life, but one that had provided a steady profit over the centuries.

In the weeks following my initiation, Talarin spent most of his days pacing about the house and throwing stones into the river. Although my chores kept me occupied, I still had not forgotten the ominous letter, hidden away in the cover of a thick blue book.

Although I was an adult in the official sense, I was still too small to do the heaviest work. While Jann-Run and many of the other men carried bags of commercial fertilizer up the hill or dug tunnels to drain excess water, I was assigned lighter, but equally necessary duties. I filled jugs at the tap in the kitchen, took organic waste to the compost heap at the edge of the property, and retrieved tools from the shed when they were needed.

Between chores, I climbed the leaning tree in front of the house and searched the sky for approaching storm clouds, rolling so low across the plains they seemed to brush against the roof tiles. On slow mornings, I folded gliders from old newspapers, and sent them soaring into the wind.

Sometimes Tsi and Kalis found colorful insects in the weeds. We imprisoned the jewels of the field in glass jars and created a private zoo in the corner of the shed. Their fluttering iridescent wings shimmered like robes of the court ladies, always aloof and haughty when my mother had passed by with her head lowered. The insects always perished before we remembered to set them free. I poked apart their exoskeletons with a pin to see their insides, but like the wives of the high-ranking generals, they appeared to be entirely bloodless.

My brother spent his days with Mama, crawling about in the grass while food was cooked and laundry was hung. The two youngest daughters of the patriarch, called Nai and Rev, took a special interest in Apuru, and treated him like a favorite doll. Often, I would find him slathering muddy handprints on the clean sheets, with bright hair-ribbons tied around his tail. My two little aunts were both mischevious and undisciplined, behaving as they pleased. I wondered if they had also lost their mother. Mama, their sister-in-law, dressed them, wiped their faces, and scolded them when they behaved badly. Even so, they constantly undermined her authority, giggling and squealing as she begged them to help with chores or wash their hands.

After contemplating the mystery of the letter for several weeks, I made up my mind to steal it. Certain that Talarin was sulking behind the shed, I scrambled through the kitchen and up the stairs, hoping that I would pass through unnoticed. I shut the door quietly behind me, waiting for the gentle click of the lock before I set upon the desk in pursuit of the book.

Since I had arrived, the order of the books on the shelf had been changed. I could read none of the titles, and quickly became frustrated. Perhaps it had not been a blue book at all, but a black one, or one with a gold stripe on the binding. I seized the books by their spines and shook them, waiting for the fine sheet of crumpled paper to fall from the pages. Driven by a burning curiosity, I did not hear the door creak open behind me.

"Kilomela, what is this mischief?"

I recognized Talarin's voice immediately, and knew I had been caught. Talarin sat down on the bed, and retrieved the letter, now torn and yellowed, from his sleeve. " I suppose someone ought to tell you. There should be no secrets between the men of this house. We have all been at odds with one another these weeks, and it is only natural that you should ask why."

He read:

"_Urmonaxi Talarin-Aliriki, son of Urmonaxi Ter-Silliki, _

"_We regret to inform you that your engagement to Varasalixi Kikivi-Yek, daughter of Varasalixi Nor-Url must be immediately dissolved. The Varasalixi no longer wish to continue personal or business exchanges with families that openly or privately support the recent actions of the royal family against our foreign trade partners. _

"_According to custom, we must settle the matter of the dowry that has already been paid to your father's accounts. We demand that three-quarters of this sum, 10,040 gold Korud, be returned to us in shipments of X'ak of equal value after the next harvest. The remaining quarter, you may keep. It is not our intent to cheat you or your family, and the interests of both parties will be best satisfied if the banks are not involved. _

"_Although Kikivi has been truly upset by this turn of events, we are confident that we will soon be able to negotiate a more appropriate match. She expresses her great relief upon your safe return from Vegetasei, and hopes that you and your family meet with fair weather and a good harvest this year. _

"_We are distressed that we cannot count your family among our allies, but we must sacrifice your valued friendship for the good of our government and our people. _

"_A hired barge will be sent upriver five months from now to collect the shipments. A messenger will be in contact with your father before then. _

_With Regret, _

_Varasalixi Par-Jann,_

_Treasurer, Varasalixi Galactic Export Group"_

Talarin sighed. "We have never met, and already, I have lost her."

"Is she so important to you, this girl you have never seen before?" I asked.

"Our marriage was delayed after I was called to serve on Vegetasei a little more than a year ago. At first, I was glad to escape my obligations, to see the the universe that exists beyond this quiet place. I did not want to love this faceless girl, a silly, innocent girl who was chosen for me from a list of strangers. But war is not an adventure, and death lurked around every corner. Officers I had respected and admired were incinerated in flash of cold light. A man who risked his life to bring water to my unit was beaten to death, his bones cracking like twigs as he was tossed against the side of a cliff. Our captain was captured and his drowned, bloated body appeared one morning tied to a post overlooking our camp in the occupied zone. He rotted there until Sunno-Kami hobbled across the border to cut him down."

If I had truly been raised in Urmon, I would not have known that men were capable of such cruelty and indifference. Time and time again, my cousin had held my head underneath the brown water in the garden pool, only releasing me when I stopped struggling and pretended to fall limp among the lily pads. The elite soldiers also played this twisted game, but unlike bullying children, did not bother to let go.

"When Kikivi's letters arrived, they were full of beautiful trivialities. I read each dozens upon dozens of times.The story of a neighbor's missing ring. A new pair of gloves. Her brother-in-law's terrible manners. A chance meeting with a childhood friend in front of a tea shop. I lived for all the promises I had made to her. The little flower garden we would plant behind the shed. The storage closet that would become our very own bedroom. The sailboat I would name after her. The songs we would sing to our children.The future we built in those letters kept me alive."

"Oh." I whispered, humbled. I too, had once survived on a meager ration of dreams and delusions.

"The leadership of the Varasalixi clan believed that they would benefit when Vegetasei fell under the rule of Prince Furiza. Now, there is an enormous excess of materials available for purchase, but nobody remains to buy them. Some of the most powerful merchant families believe the recession to be irreversable, and many have already declared bankruptcy." he explained.

_Exporters. Recession. Bankruptcy._This was the mysterious refrain of Prince Konnyakku's war song, the urgent, rhythmic whispers of the generals and advisers as they devised their futile strategies.

Talarin paused." The Varasalixi clan has made a small fortune by buying grain from the farmers in Urmon and sending it to other planets where resources are scarce. Now they must settle all of their debts and wait for their fortune to run dry. We are fortunate in that my father is owed many favors, and our surplus will not go to waste this year. While men and women still break bread, we are assured a decent living."

Every patriliniage was associated with specific trades and industries. Unless I was singled out for some other purpose, I would, like Talarin, be limited to agricultural work. While men remained bound to their own extended family, a wife's loyalties were divided between her father's family and her husband's. If the marriage of Urmonaxi Talarin-Aliriki and Varasalixi Kikivi-Yek were to take place, the solidarity of both clans would be severely compromised.

I thought about this for a moment."So now, the merchants and the farmers can no longer be friends."

"That is true." said Talarin. " Some say that there are better reasons for starting a rebellion, and that the king will soon restore his older son, Prince Kuura to his place in the line of succession. But as long as Furiza-Korudsiki remains the legal heir, and we persist in our support of King Korudo, the Varasalixi clan will have nothing to do with us."

" You will find another wife." I said encouragingly. " There must be many good women who would like to marry you." Secretly, I was glad that I would not lose Talarin to the mysterious Kikivi-Yek. I did not think that Talarin should be married to a pampered, fragile woman who knew only of half-empty promises. This kind of woman, a woman like my mother, would forever be unhappy.

"We all have our complaints about the state of the economy, but we are certainly not prepared for the civil war that the Varasalixi clan is bent on starting." Talarin wiped his eye on his sleeve. "In the interest of peace, I will remain a bachelor, and a loyal subject to the king."

"I'm very sorry for trying to take the letter." I admitted.

"You wouldn't have been able to read it," he said. " Besides, I'm sure that you were only curious. There is no fault in that."

That evening, Talarin made a sudden reappearance after having been goaded into playing a game of cards with his father and brother. Jann-Run called me away from my lonely perch on the window ledge, where I had been sulking guiltily.

"My brother tells me that you have a budding interest in politics," he said, drumming his fingers on the table.

Embarassed, I stared at a water stain on the floorboards.

" It is my opinion that you would do well if you were sent to school with other boys your age. An inquistive mind, left untrained, can sprout troublesome ideas." Talarin and the patriarch nodded in agreement.

" You will have to speak proper _Korud'go_, as a condition," interjected the patriarch." And you will have to learn to write well enough to pass the school entrance examination." My heart sank. I could barely communicate with the other members of the household, and now I was faced with the daunting task of reading and writing a new language as well.

"Most boys enter the local school at the age of twelve. You will have two long years to prepare," said Talarin, drawing a card. He compared it to the others in his hand and frowned. Fortune, it seemed, had never favored Talarin-Aliriki.

Until 766, no public education system existed in Urmon, and the tuition for the local school limited the number of children each household could afford to enroll there. The vast majority of young men learned to read and do sums at home, never consdiering a formal education. Talarin and Jann-Run had each finished the upper school at the age of nineteen, but had not been accepted to any of the universities. If I passed the lower school's entrance examinations, the patriarch would be taking a rather costly risk. In order for the clan's financial sacrifice to be worthwhile, I would have to see the challenge through to the very end.

" Tomorrow night we will take out the copybook, " declared the patriarch. "I have a strong feeling that our efforts will not be wasted."

" I will do my best." I whispered, wondering if their confidence had been misplaced.

From that day on, my chores were cut in half, and I was to spend the afternoon in the kitchen stumbling through Jann-Run's crumbling, dog-eared schoolbook. At night, I read aloud to the Patriarch, stumbling through the simplest sentences, wringing my hands in fustration. I practiced writing in the dust with a twig, and in the river clay with a broken reed. When Mama prepared bread, I drew words in the flour on the counter and rubbed them out one by one.

Korud'go is written in a complex script that relies on a syllabary and thousands of ideograms, pictograms, and logograms. Novels were printed with the charcters arranged in the familiar right to left order, but newspapers and magazines read from left to right. Personal letters, a true art form, were written in vertical columns from top to bottom. Grammar seemed to eschew simplicity, and small ideas were elegantly stretched to distortion. While Saiyago was the crude and uncomplicated language of commoners, Korud'go was the invention of nobles and silver-tongued poets.

Slowly, the mess of symbols became sense, and I required Talarin's translations less and less often. As the damp weather gave way to the bitter cold of the dry season, I began to sound more and more like a native. I talked to anyone who would listen, asking questions about fishing and spacecraft and snowflakes until they chased me away.

" What a noisy little bird you have become!" observed Mama. "Chirping and chirping all day long."

During the last week of the harvest, a letter carrier trudged up the path, shivering in the morning chill. I ran to the door to let him into the vestibule. He removed his fur hat, and produced an envelope, upon which the name _Urmonaxi Talarin-Aliriki_ was written in blue ink. I gave the letter carrier a coin from a jar in the kitchen, and opened the envelope in the privacy of the toilet, careful to preserve the red Varasalixi seal. Later, repaired with a drop of paste, the letter would make its way into my uncle's hands.

Inside, was a plain card that read:

_Tomorrow. _


	9. The River Demon's Bridegroom

**Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing**

_The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi_

_A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin_

** VIII.**

_**The River-Demon's Bridegroom: Mes-Dindalafai so-Usar'ros**_

The dry season of 738 was the coldest winter in three hundred years. Towards the end of the harvest, the farmers were forced to work at twice the usual rate, and even then, the onset of winter was quicker than their hands. The sudden drop in temperature was said to be only a brief departure from the predictions distributed by the Royal Office of Agriculture. The patriarch assured us that the region was in no danger of famine. We ate well and spent our money carelessly, confident that the next year would bring better profits.

Jann-Run, pleased that I displayed a great eagerness to study, ordered a new copy of _The Deeds of Korudsiki _from a bookshop in the capital. The cover was embossed with a floral motif and a gold page-marker was attached to the binding. Inside, the page borders were filled with bright illustrations printed from engravings. The seller had written that the king himself had purchased such a copy for his personal collection.

_O listen, friends! _

_This is the story of the first ancestor, _

_Korudsiki, he who railed against the gods, _

_And challenged the rule of mortal men, _

_At the beginning of this glorious age. _

Meanwhile, Talarin's melancholy seemed to have disappeared entirely. We took turns reading about the adventures of the tragic hero Korudsiki, and went on secret missions to swipe sweets from the kitchen at night. We built towers out of the patriarch's playing cards, and made a tent in the shed out of bed sheets and sticks. We painted a bright orange stripe on a new sailboat that smelled of furniture polish and sawdust. Talarin wrote the name _Kikivi-Yek_ on one of the smooth planks, so small that it took me an hour of searching to find it afterwards.

The suspicious note, cleverly doctored, was given to Mama, who carelessly left it on the kitchen counter while she tended to a pot of soup. It was forgotten until the late evening, when Nai and Rev discovered it underneath a dishrag, and brought it to their father. The patriarch dropped the sauce-stained envelope into Talarin's lap without looking at the sender's seal.

At dawn the next day, I packed a straw hamper with bread, dried fish, matches, two blankets and my new book. I walked down to the river's edge and set myself afloat in a little rowboat Jann-Run had often used for fishing. A layer of ice had begun to form on the banks where the water was still, and I could see schools of little creatures darting to and fro beneath the transparent surface. Winter was an eerie season here, the short days as dim and silent as twilight. A gas lamp shed a cheery glow upon the pages and kept my hands warm while I read.

_Korudsiki, called the demon-prince,_

_Born of the river spirit Mes-Dindala, _

_Was the nephew of the first king Korudo, _

_Who lived before men could write. _

_He stepped upon the green banks, _

_Emerged from the river fully formed, _

_A man as white and pure as foam, _

_His splendid limbs were dried by the sun. _

'_O my child, go to your uncle, the king, _

_tell him you have risen from Mes-Dindala, _

_the river in which his brother, the prince_

_had drowned a year since, while bathing'_

I decided that the world must have been a very strange place before people could write. It seemed that people were conceived, born, and died all in the wrong order. Ordinary men had extraordinary powers, and the gods and demons, who were now silent observers, often interfered in the lives of mortals. In this century, they had grown bored of us, and we were left to create chaos among ourselves.

_'His beautiful body fell to the bottom, _

_ I saw that he had no breath, _

_I loved him in the darkness of the water, _

_And he could not escape my caresses.' _

The barge ran aground about a quarter of a mile away from the borders of our property. The rapid formation of ice had lowered the level of the river by more than two feet, and the barge could go no further than the rocky beach owned by the Gisi, our neighbors to the north. I blew out the gas lamp and rowed slowly along the bank, hidden by thickets of dry reeds. Some of the Gisi had already gathered on the rocks overlooking the river, their bright woven scarves fluttering like war banners against the white sky.

Soon, Jann-Run and Talarin arrived to explain the situation to the crowd on the beach. The captain of the barge, whose face was hidden by a dark hood, spewed a series of vile-sounding words from high up on the deck. Frustrated, he disappeared through a trap door into the cargo hold.

A young woman wearing a man's fur hat approached Jann-Run.

"What business has this captain with you, neighbor?" She extended a small, gloved hand in greeting. Jann-Run, rather impolitely, did not take it.

" I would prefer to speak with your father or your elder brother, if they are at home," he said, crossing his arms.

" My father and brother suffer from an illness contracted on the front. They have entrusted me with the family's business matters for the time being." The woman withdrew her hand.

"We are simply repaying an outstanding debt to the Varasalixi, our long-time friends," said Jann-Run bluntly. " You should not be concerned."

"The Varasalixi are no friends of yours, or ours." The woman removed her hat. A long, straw-colored braid had been messily pinned into a knot at the top of her head, and was now falling to one side. Although she seemed to care little about her appearance, the woman's voice rang with confidence, lacking the sticky flirtatiousness that often coats the speech of young women. "I think your estate may be overdue for an inspection from the Office of Taxation. Unless, neighbor, you have some other explanation."

The woman smirked in an insincere and threatening manner. Jann-Run and Talarin exchanged glances nervously. Suddenly, she scowled. "My mother's cousin, the postmaster, has recently intercepted some interesting messages."

"So why ask, if you already know," grumbled Talarin, embarrassed.

Her expression softened." The Varasalixi are trouble, and if you are caught making illegal shipments, for whatever reason, all of your neighbors will be questioned as well. My father is too ill to deal with the government, and they will never agree to negotiate with me. "

"You have no legal claim to your father's title. If you are caught signing his contracts, you'll be jailed at the very least," snapped Jann-Run. The vindictive creature that stood before him hardly seemed female, and could not be the equal of any man as influential as her father.

" Finish this business quickly, and I will say that I know nothing of it." The woman turned to her relatives, huddled on the rocks, a safe distance away. "Go back to the house!" she shouted, shooing away the onlookers.

The woman faced Talarin and bowed. "I am Gisi Nittei-Axurha, and I temporarily represent the Gisi estate in Urmon." She extended her hand again. "I am very sorry that your engagement has been dissolved, but it is my hope that this incident will mark the beginning of a long and fruitful friendship between neighbors."

Talarin paused for a moment, wondering whether to ally himself with a woman who was openly hostile at one moment, and sympathetic the next. They shook hands, a traditional gesture of mutual trust. Jann-Run looked away and snorted audibly.

The crowd slowly dissolved, and I returned to my book.

_Lightly like on the wind he flew, _

_To the house of King Korudo, _

_Who was so rich that it was said, _

_All he touched would turn to gold. _

I ate the fish and the hard bread as the men made their way to the beach to load sacks of hulled xa'k kernels into the hold. Jann-Run counted each one, carving tally marks into the frozen clay on the bank. Thankfully, the events of the morning had distracted the adults, and Mama had not come looking for me.

_In the orchards was a woman, _

_Dark and fragile as dust,_

_She plucked a fruit from the tree_

_Her dress was tangled in the branches_

_'O, how lovely are her limbs_

_Her wild hair is the color of night,_

_O, her eyes are intoxicating, _

_As the perfume of dew-soaked blossoms'_

As the day wore on, the sun vanished behind a screen of gray, and the dead reeds began to crack and whistle in the wind. I lit a match and watched it burn to a blackened stub. The kerosene in the lantern had nearly run out, and I would have to return to the house before the barge departed. I decided that I would read another page, about a half-hour's effort, before I made a break for the foot of the hill.

Suddenly, I heard the captain shout, and I sprang up, clutching the book to my chest. The boat rocked nervously from side to side. If the weight of the hamper had not acted as a counterbalance, I would have toppled into the icy water. A stowaway had been discovered in one of the padlocked containers, and the activity on the beach slowed to a halt. There was some nervous chatter, and then an uncomfortable silence. The crowd parted, and in our midst stood my uncle's intended bride, no longer a name or a word, but a woman modeled after the beauties of legend and verse.

Kikivi-Yek's skin shone like the red-tinged peel of a ripe plum, smooth and unblemished as if she had been molded from colored glass. She wore a cloud of white fur, so thick and fine that its quality was evident even from the distance at which I stood. The long blue pleats of her dress drifted on the sand behind her, a luxurious and impractical garment that seemed garish beside the drab costumes of the crowd. If the Varasalixi had any gold left after their enterprise had been destroyed, Kikivi-Yek was likely wearing it on her wrists and on her neck. Soon, she would have to sell her valuables to pay her family's enormous debt.

Kikivi smiled vacantly at Talarin. " I had hoped that I would be disappointed, and would want to turn back. " she said. " But now that I have seen you, I have no wish to return to my father."

_She looked upon Prince Korudsiki,_

_Saw the lustful darkness in his thoughts, _

_She feared him, but as flimsy paper, _

_Held to flame, was soon consumed_

_O, be wary of him, lady!_

_He is half-ghost, half-water! _

Wisely, I tied off the boat, and fled as soon as Jann-Run's back was turned. Scurrying up the hill, I dropped my book, but did not dare return for it. I climbed the tree in front of the house, and pried the window open with my stiff fingers. When Mama came looking for me to help peel vegetables, I was sitting the in hall with a writing tablet and an empty mug of tea. I lied, and said that I had overslept.

That night, I was banished to the upstairs bedroom with Tsi and Kalis. The walls rattled with the vibrations of the argument in the kitchen below. We ate our dinner cross-legged on the floor, listening closely. The matter of the bride, the debt and the return of the barge had not yet been settled. I recognized the voice of the barge captain, who continued to spew colorful insults at both Nittei and the patriarch. A door slammed. _Bump.Thump.Smack._ A kettle was overturned. _Ding.Rattle.Hiss._ A plate shattered. _Crack._ And then there was silence.

Talarin did not return to our room, even after the argument had ended. I thought of the kitchen stove, still hot although the fire had been snuffed out some time ago. If I could warm my hands and feet, I would sleep more soundly. I climbed out of bed, careful not to wake my cousins, who were wrapped in a thick cocoon of mismatched comforters. Walking heel to toe to muffle the creak of the floorboards, I crept towards the darkened stairwell. I heard a distant cry, perhaps the sound of my brother waking from a nightmare or a pair of birds sparring on the roof.

At the foot of the stairs, I stopped.

_Be wary of her, prince!_

_She is the daughter of the false king!_

Among the shadows, my uncle's pale torso was tangled in a woman's arms, spindly and bare. Talarin's scarred hands seemed crude and ugly against her thighs as he pressed her hips against the wall. Kikivi's dark hair half-unpinned, fell over his shoulder, obscuring her face, but I knew her by the glint of her gold necklace against her breasts. An undignified moan escaped Talarin's lips as they rolled onto the floor together, limbs askew among the sharp fragments of broken dishes, crumbs and bruised vegetable skins.In the darkness, they were one monstrous form, a violent, primitive mass of flesh that heaved and fused without sense or shame.

I had been told about the relations between men and women, but to see it, to see Talarin in this manner, filled me with disgust. Here was my partner in innocent pretending, yielding to a creature who tempted him to act upon his most treacherous inclinations. Even though I was repulsed, I watched them until the wandering rays of the moon chased me into the stairwell.

I slept uneasily until noon. Jann-Run came to wake me after the barge had left with its cargo, the captain and its single passenger. The Gisi had successfully towed the vessel into deeper water, and the wind carried Kikivi-Yek back to her father as soon as it was bright enough to raise the sails for the trip downriver.

The Varasalixi had been cheated. Although they had retrieved their most precious asset, she could never again be used as a bargaining tool. The shipment of x'ak should have been doubled, or even tripled after the activities of the previous night, but I was too ashamed to tell the patriarch what I'd seen. In our attempt to distance ourselves from the Varasalixi, we had been thoroughly and unhappily bound to them instead.

Later in the day, I was sent to answer the kitchen door. Nittei-Axurha stood behind it, warming her hands with her breath. I invited her to come inside. Her dark eyes, which had been sharp and commanding on the beach, were thoughtful and brooding in the dancing light from the stove.

"_Bidu!"_ I bowed politely, unsure of her intentions.

Nittei smiled, revealing a line of teeth that were just a bit crooked and stained, evidence of her preference for black tea. She produced _The Deeds of Korudsiki _from inside her coat.

" I think this belongs to you, " she said, touching the cover enviously.

I noticed a large silver seal ring on her second finger. The seal was a sunken image of a horned skull, upon which the name _Gisi_ was engraved in reverse. I thought that it must have been her father's, for it was an ugly thing for a young woman to wear.

When she had gone, I opened the book to the page I had marked.

_From the gods we cannot hide! _

_They see through the walls and in the mind,_

_The terrible things we dream and desire, _

_The secret things we keep and forget. _


	10. Bones of the Favored Son

**He's mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing**

_The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi_

_A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin_

** IX.**

**Bones of the Favored Son: **_**Te'telli-a Atu so-Semrin**_

Nittei's father, Gisi Attin-Remdo, died of his prolonged illness six weeks before the turn of the new year. His only son, Krair-Varu, breathed his last a day and an hour later. While his trembling body writhed and seized on his parents' featherbed, the battles Krair-Varu had endured on the Kanassa front played over and over on the brittle canvas of his mind. I was told that he shouted the names of his slain comrades before he finally fell silent, his eyes open wide in fear. Their battalion's water supply had been poisoned with biochemical agents that had taken effect shortly after victory had been declared. As a result of this tragic incident, sixteen hundred and seven new casualties would be added to the official count two years after the war was said to have ended.

The Royal Office of Public Health, founded by the current king, saw a perfect opportunity to exercise its authority and took away both father and son before funerary rites could be enacted. The corpses were split from neck to navel by the examiners, every cavity violated by curious hands. Immediately afterwards, doctors and researchers descended upon the region like a cloud of locusts, rudely demanding that the people of Urmon answer their lengthy questionnaires and submit samples of their blood, hair and spit for analysis.

Out of respect for their compatriots, the reservists refused to cooperate unless the dead were interred according to custom. The patriarch barred the doctors from our property, but they pounded on the front door nevertheless, hoping that the old man would have a change of heart.

"This is sorcery disguised as science," declared the patriarch, slamming the window shut. "How can we yield to their demands? The surgeons have condemned our neighbors to an eternity of anguish, their insides leaking out here, there, and everywhere in the afterlife."

The men of the house nodded in agreement. Attin-Remdo and Krair-Varu would never be able to ascend to heaven if their vital organs had been carelessly damaged during the autopsy. My father's body had been ritually dismembered to produce the opposite effect, made to wander blind, deaf and mute through the bowels of the underworld. If the same fate were to befall a respected member of the community, the spiritual repercussions would be severe for all concerned.

Mama took part in the traditional outpouring of sympathy by preparing sweets and pastries to feed the mourners. Nittei, now considered the executor of her father's will, had little time to properly entertain relatives that had come to pay their respects. Despite Jann-Run's protests, Mama recruited me to accompany her to the Gisi estate. We wrapped two hundred sugar-glazed cakes in waxed paper and set off along the dirt road, hurrying past the tents erected by the doctors.

The bare trees in the yard had been strung with green banners and paper flowers, a symbolic imitation of a verdant summer. A number of lanterns burned cheerfully on the porch and in the windows, warding off any demons that might be attracted to the misery of the mourners. As we approached, Nittei had already begun to spread salt at all of the entrances, a barrier that would keep the ghosts of her father and brother from leaving the house before they were properly buried.

"_Bidu_, Nittei!" said Mama. " We are very sorry to hear that both your father and your brother have passed away. Please be glad that their long suffering has ended, and that they look forward to an eternity of bliss."

"_Bidu_, neighbor Aiek!" said Nittei. " It is so good of you to come! As you can tell, I am bit short-handed." She wiped her hands on the front of her dress, leaving white fingerprints on the blue cloth.

"My husband is very busy and could not come with us today, but he apologizes for the unpleasantness that occurred three weeks ago." Mama was a skilled teller of polite lies. "Let me commend you for your level-headedness. My brother-in-law's former fiancée is a sore subject for us all."

Nittei rested the can of salt against the railing. "I see you have brought along your son instead. We have met once before, but I did not catch his name. Your father-in law has so many nieces and nephews, it is difficult to tell one from the other." She brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

"My name is Kilomela-Jann." I said.

"Kilomela-Jann." Nittei repeated. "A little bird who loves the written word, I'll wager."

Mama laughed uncomfortably. " I can hardly tear him away from his books. No doubt he will score high marks on the school entrance examinations. My father-in-law is much invested in his education."

"Indeed," said Nittei. " His progress must bring you great satisfaction, as my brother's successes brought great joy to my father. He always said that he loved the king first, Krair-Varu second, my mother third, and then after them, his dogs."

" And you?" I asked. Nittei turned her father's seal ring round and round on her finger.

" Until now," she replied. " I was even lower than the dogs."

Inside the front rooms, a mob of relatives struggled to bring itself to order among a mess of luggage and furniture. Attin-Remdo's three dogs wandered through the sea of legs and feet, their wet, beady eyes searching tirelessly for their master. I fed them cake crumbs, but the forbidden treat only livened their spirits for a short moment. Although the dogs had been bred for hunting and tracking, they had been spoiled by table scraps and lazy days in the sun. I followed the animals into the kitchen, where they retreated to a warm corner behind the stove.

Nittei's mother, a small, wiry woman with nervous hands, scrubbed a kettle with unnatural fervor as the mourners cautiously milled around her. She drummed her fingers on the blackened surface. _Ting-tap.Ting-tap.Ting-tap._

" I'm sorry, I did not notice you standing there," she said, looking over her shoulder. She studied my face for a moment, squinting. " You must be Kalis-Peis. It has been several years since you last visited. I am amazed at how much you have grown."

" No, madam." I explained. "Kalis-Peis is my cousin, three years my senior."

" Oh, forgive my forgetfulness. You are Tsi-Jann, perhaps."

" No, madam." I protested. " I am called Kilomela-Jann. My parents are Jann-Run and Aiek-Hi."

The kettle fell into the washbasin with a foreboding clatter." Is that so?" she demanded. I could see the red capillaries pulsing in the whites of her eyes. She had not slept in many days.

" Yes, madam." I replied. I had become accustomed to telling half-lies.

The widow shook her head. "That isn't possible. You couldn't be. The child ten years ago…"

"What child?" I asked.

Suddenly, Nittei's mother reached into to the pocket of her apron and threw a handful of salt into the air. Before I could ask her to explain herself, she struck my cheek with the back of her hand. Disoriented, I stumbled backwards and fell to the floor. Looking up, I studied my assailant. Her startled expression mirrored my own.

"Oh! Forgive my rudeness!" she pleaded frantically. "I am tired and must have been imagining things. I am not quite myself today, you see. I am not myself at all."

As Nittei's mother shuffled into her husband's study for a few moments of repose, I brushed the salt crystals away from my clothing and out of my hair. Mama entered, carrying a ceramic teapot in both hands.

"Kilomela-Jann," she asked. "Are you feeling well?"

"I feel fine." I insisted. "I was only startled by one of the dogs."

She raised an eyebrow. "Don't embarrass us now, little bird. Your father and Talarin have done quite enough damage already."

On the way home, a strong wind began to blow, causing the red dust to rise in waves above the road. While the winters in Urmon had been cold and dry for as long as anyone could remember, the end of 738 brought a sea of dark clouds that hovered ominously over the landscape, swollen with water.

"Little bird," said Mama. "Let's quicken our step. The wind is angry today."

We arrived safely at our own front door moments before the storm began. The wooden shutters flapped open and shut, open and shut, the mischief of malevolent spirits searching for the dead in every house. The gaslights flickered, casting ugly shadows with long, spindly arms and greedy fingers. The patriarch covered his two young daughters with a white bedsheet, and told them to remain perfectly still until the danger was over.

"Father," protested Talarin. "Demons only eat badly behaved children."

Nai and Rev giggled audibly. "That is precisely why they should remain hidden," said the patriarch.

_Ting! _A few hailstones tapped at the window glass. _Ting-ting-ting!_ The rattle escalated into a terrifying roar_. Ting-ta-ting-ta-tap! _The tiles were torn away from the roof and shattered to pieces on the ground. _Kring-ting-ta-tap!_ Apuru howled. _Aieeee!Ting-ta-tap!_

It was then that the wind began to speak. "_Friends! Friends! Please let us come inside_."

A shriek escaped from underneath the sheet. Jann-Run drew Mama close, certain that we would be all be carried off into the underworld. Talarin closed his eyes and thought of his beloved Kikivi-Yek. Kalis-Peis hugged his knees to his chest and buried his face in Tsi-Jann's tunic. Only the patriarch did not seem alarmed. He rose from his seat and bravely unlocked the door.

The visitor was no demon, but two young doctors from the Office of Public Health. In the hailstorm, their tent had collapsed and their documents and specimens had been scattered and ruined. All of the neighbors had refused them shelter, and their colleagues could not return for them until the roads had been cleared. The doctors looked so ragged and frightened after an hour of wandering from house to house, that even a man as superstitious and stubborn as the patriarch was compelled to show them pity.

"Quickly, Quickly! Come inside!" the patriarch commanded. "It is you who have upset the dead, and the ghosts of Attin-Remdo and Krair-Varu will hunt you until you set this situation to rights. But you are both young and foolish, and I will not be responsible for your demise."

The grateful doctors shed their coats in the vestibule, revealing the red trimmed robes that were a mark of their profession. They bowed profusely to the patriarch and his two younger brothers, keeling and touching their palms to the floor.

"Get up! Get up!" snapped Ruk-Sagri, the father of Tsi-Jann. "Groveling won't save you."

"Your ancestors must be angered by your shameful actions," said Peis-Uzkoa, the father of Kalis-Peis. "If we had not let the two of you inside, the wind demon, Eki-Eki, would have made a hearty meal of your souls!"

The taller doctor accepted a warm cup of tea from Mama. "_Bidu._ We thank you for your hospitality. I am Yaritisi Har-Furiza, and my companion is Brixi Girsak-Jann."

Talarin scowled. "You've taken the name of the prince."

"It was my father who chose it for me," Dr. Yaritisi explained. "I was born on the prince's eleventh birthday."

"I see." said Mama. "So young, and yet so accomplished."

Dr. Brixi blushed. "You are too generous with your praise. We graduated from the Tuparin School of Medicine only last year, and we have been working for the Office of Public Health ever since."

"I wonder what sort of alien nonsense they teach you in Tuparin," grumbled the patriarch. "Concoctions that make you grow two new fingers where one was cut off. Switching the organs of people and animals and growing kidneys in a jar. I have heard of such repulsive things happening in the cities."

Dr. Brixi laughed. "I do not mean to be rude, sir, but the beliefs of our ancestors only hinder our people's progress. The technology acquired in Prince Furiza's conquests will certainly better our quality of life in the future."

"Our families are very proud that we serve the public good," added Dr.Yaritisi.

"Even so," argued Jann-Run. "You know only of bones and brains and sinew, and nothing of the soul. How can you protect the public from illness and death when you've angered the gods so irresponsibly."

"Surely as scientific men, we cannot be expected to share your superstions," said Dr.Brixi. "The era of ignorance is swiftly coming to a close."

The wind shrieked, demanding swift justice.

"Ah," said the patriarch. "But listen to the storm. If nature were without consciousness, as you believe it to be, could it cry out with such vengeful fury? Listen to the storm. Can you hear it? It is calling for the two young doctors from Tuparin."

The doctors exchanged fearful glances. The patriarch had outwitted them, planting the infectious seeds of doubt.

Two days later, Krair-Varu and Attin-Remdo were carried to their gravesite by a parade of officials, eager to make retribution. The storm had felled tree branches in the road, shattered windows, and smashed fences to the ground. Now that it had passed, the sky was clear and only a chilly breeze reminded us that it was still winter.

Two pits were dug in the frozen ground, thrice as deep as a man is tall. Nittei's father and brother were set down at the bottom of each, wrapped in the fine white cloth once worn to distinguish the men of the Gisi patrilineage from all others. Attin-Remdo was followed by hand-drawn maps of his property, a treasured knife with a gold handle, several books on the subject of military history, two medals for valor, and a box of his favorite sweets. Krair-Varu, having achieved little in twenty-two years, took only his sketchbook, and a photograph of his mother and sister.

Nittei, still wearing her father's seal ring, was responsible for the completion of the funeral rites. No other leader had been decided upon, and it was feared that she might assume Attin-Remdo's position indefinitely. Her shrewdness and serious manner were qualities highly valued in men, but never in women.

"_Oh, my father, free yourself from this broken body!_" shouted Nittei. "_Oh, my brother, your flesh is returned to the earth!_" A bottle of _van'am_ was smashed over each headstone, and the dead were appeased.

As the mourners dispersed, I noticed Nittei standing alone in the shadow of a tree whose branches had fallen in the storm. She began to clear away the twigs and shriveled leaves in search of something underneath.

"Have you lost something, Nittei?" I asked.

"Ah, I did. But now, it has been found!" A round stone, the size of melon, sat inconspicuously in a nest of debris.

"What is it?" I wondered.

"When I was twelve years old," she explained, "A young woman called Aiek-Hi was sent from a far-away town to marry the neighbors' son, Jann-Run. Like you, I hid in the reeds and watched her from distance. While I was plain and ordinary, the new bride was luminous. Even her name began with the two pictograms that stand for fortune and joy. I envied her happiness, and wished that my father would send me away to marry some nice man with strong arms and kind eyes."

"When Aiek-Hi gave birth to a son almost year later, my mother and I were the first of the neighbors to hear of it. We came up the road with our matching umbrellas, skipping through the summer mud. I had never seen a newborn child before, and I was eager to congratulate the woman I so admired."

"Did you see him?" I asked.

"I did. He had pink cheeks and curling dark hair as soft as down feathers. His parents decided to name him after the flitting birds that nest by the river in the wet season. Aiek-Hi placed him in my arms, and I thought that this was what I should aspire to. That night I dreamed of husbands and babies and sunlit fields in a far-away country."

"And then?" My heart leapt into my throat.

"Jann-Run came to our door early in the morning and woke my parents. In the night, the perfect baby boy had stopped breathing, and was now pale and limp in his mother's arms. In my nightdress, I followed them, my parents, Jann-Run and Aiek-Hi, to this tree, careful to stay twenty paces behind. A very old man, shriveled like a prune, was waiting there. I did not hear what he said after that, but he wrapped the child in a yellow sash, and placed him gently in a basket."

She wiped the dust away from the stone with her glove. "The child's uncle, then a senior student at the school, encountered me here in the afternoon. We placed this stone here together, although it is against custom to mark the resting place of a child or an unmarried woman. For ten years, my knowledge of your death has been our secret. We do not speak of it, but when the child's uncle shook my hand on the beach three weeks ago, it was because he remembered that I could be trusted."

"It is good to hear the truth." I said.

"Here are your bones, Kilomela," whispered Nittei. "It has been a long time, but I did not forget you."

The outline of a bird had been carved into the surface of the grave-marker, its wings folded, eyes closed in eternal sleep.


	11. The Ideal Man

**Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing**

The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi

A Saiyan Among the Korud-Jin

_**X.**_

_**Na Hui Tok'uxi :**_ **The Ideal Man**

The entrance examination administered by the Young Men's School of Greater Urmon was scheduled for the ninth day of the second month of the year 740. In the year following the death of Attin-Remdo, I had worked tirelessly to perfect my penmanship and diction. My handwriting had begun to develop a unique character, made elegant by my careful attention to every tiny curve, stroke and coil. I copied passages from any and every book I could find, borrowing from the neighbors when I had exhausted every title in the patriarch's collection. While the other boys competing for admission were confident in their knowledge of Korud'go, I struggled to hide all evidence of my still- limited understanding.

While a passing score on the exam would spare my back and my hands from years of difficult labor, I would have been pleased to follow in the patriarch's footsteps instead. As the heir to a moderately sized estate, I had only to be able to read the tax codes and write letters to manage the family's enterprise effectively. In retrospect, however, I am grateful that the patriarch and Jann-Run pressured me to do otherwise. While decisiveness and a large measure of self-confidence were vital to the patriarch's role, I had grown into a hesitant and somewhat sycophantic young man. Although I would eventually become more assertive, I am still, as ever, unsuited to fulfill my obligation as Jann-Run's immediate successor.

The school, on the other hand, aims to produce a submissive and wholly pliant individual. A good student becomes a contributor to the prestige of his family by deferring to the knowledge of his teachers, and later to the instructions of the superiors in his chosen profession. While all Korud-jin were born into the hierarchy of their respective clans, the employee simultaneously occupied a place in the greater social order. Even as late as the 750's it was common to address school administrators formally as _Bihuu, _my father, and teachers as _Iku_,my elder brother. These same titles were conferred upon chief surgeons, judges, master architects, head newspaper editors, high government officials and other experts by their devoted underlings.

Jann-Run, who had passed the entrance examination twenty-nine years earlier, did his best to help me prepare for the trial ahead. The residual panic from his own experience suddenly resurfaced the evening before the test. While going straight to bed after dinner would have been a wiser strategy, I was obliged to review Jann-Run's beloved _Principles for Young Philosophers _one last time.

_Who is the ideal man? He channels his ambition towards the advancement of his family, and does not seek to glorify himself. He is in a constant state of action, performing his duties without complaint, and does not find happiness in money or petty self-indulgences. He faces hardship with determination, and is willing to lay down his life to protect those in his care. The walls of his home are transparent; He hides nothing from his neighbors. He does not allow the displeasure of others to dampen his spirits. He is faithful to his wife, loyal to his friends, and sets a fine example for his children._

After copying this passage several times, I began to wonder whether it was at all possible to strive for greatness without self-interest. Perhaps the terrible secret of the ideal man was that he could not exist. Jann-Run and the Patriarch were the best men I had ever known, but even they were lacking beside the illusive ideal.

_The man who embodies these qualities is worthy of the highest honor._

Jann-Run dipped the tip of his pen into red ink and circled an incorrect group of characters. I had written _he entangles_ instead of _who embodies_. "There are some small errors here and there," Jann-Run observed. " When you are asked to write down a passage that the examiner reads aloud, you must be careful to check twice at every pause. "

" Do you think that I'll pass? " I asked.

"I think that you could earn the top score," he replied. "So long as you don't daydream until the clock runs out."

On the morning of the examination, Mama and Jann-Run came to wake me at half past four. In the kitchen, thumb-sized pork sausages called _Juzinn so-Tsagra_, the rich man's fingers,crackled in a pan. Although the Urmonaxi clan was well off in comparison to many others in the region, we consumed red meat only on special occasions. The sight of a sausage in our kitchen was rare indeed. Here, where only birds were bred for slaughter, hares and small wild pigs were most often found on the tables of the wealthy. On ordinary days, meals were eaten with the entire household in attendance, and all partook in an abundance of fresh-caught fish and roasted fowl.

Strangely, the smell of cooked flesh had become repulsive to me. The awful hissing of the fat in the pan and the grotesque shrinking of the rich man's fingers as they browned and blistered recalled the day the royal compound was burned to the ground. I imagined the little pig, squirming and squealing, as Attin-Remdo's three long-snouted dogs tore it limb from limb, their gray-speckled muzzles matted and bloodstained. Unbeknownst to Mama, who had only the best intentions, this celebratory meal had been laced with the memory of death. I did not want to insult her, so I quickly ate two sausages, barely chewing.

Jann-Run watched as sugar cube dissolved in his teacup. " I wonder how many applicants are competing this year," he muttered. "Two, maybe three hundred?"

Mama yawned. Without cosmetics, she gave the impression of an oversized porcelain doll, her child-like roundness accentuated by her colorless cheeks and thin eyebrows. "Little bird," she said, " You must be polite to all of the examinees and the teachers. They'll all think I haven't taught you to be respectful if you don't bow when you greet them." While a child's intellectual development is entirely the father's domain, one's mother invariably reinforces good manners and social propriety.

I washed my face and hands at the kitchen faucet, scrubbing under my nails twice. I ran a comb through my hair, taming a few wayward curls. Although I didn't have any new clothes, I looked the part of a respectable young student in my freshly–polished winter boots and a crisp, white tunic borrowed from Kalis-Peis.

" It's time to leave, son, " whispered Jann-Run. "It's a half-hour to the main road at least."

At the door, Mama kissed both cheeks and brushed a straying curl away from my eyes. Two years earlier, she could lean over and kiss the top of my head. Now, we stood nose to nose. At the bottom of the hill, I turned back, and she was still there, shivering in the doorway, arms crossed. Thirty years ago, few women had ever set foot on a school campus. While fathers proudly escorted their sons to the examination as part of the yearly ritual, the boys' mothers waited patiently at home, hoping.

The Young Men's School of Greater Urmon was located in the town of Three Crossings, more than ten kilometers away from the east bank of the Dindala River. In the early years of this century, students living at the river's edge walked for two hours in the dark in order to arrive in time for their classes. Although the sight of a vehicle on the muddy side roads was uncommon, students could travel part of the way on a delivery truck, or pay a driver to take them along the main route to the town. If a flood or an early freeze made the network of unpaved roads impassable, a parade of young men would trudge loyally towards Three Crossings, their precious notebooks clutched in hand.

A truck bounced to a stop at the intersection. The driver, a thick-necked boar of a man, emerged from behind the wheel. His thinning hair was damp with perspiration, and his hot breath condensed and lingered in the chilly air.

" _Jann-Run!_" the burly driver shouted, revealing a mouth full of crooked, gold-capped teeth. "Gods, you were only half-grown the last time I came to visit. Is this the boy?"

"Kilomela, this is Uncle Haira. He's an old friend of my father's." Jann-Run avoided the driver's beady gaze, choosing to divert his attention towards a loose thread on his sleeve.

" _Bidu_, sir." I said, remembering Mama's instructions. I thought to bow, but the patriarch's friend seized the collar of my tunic first.

" No need for formalities," said Uncle Haira." We're like family, your grandfather and I. He's quite a fellow, your grandfather. Quite a fellow." He released me, and nearly sent me tumbling into the ditch running along the side of the road.

"And how is business?" asked Jann-Run, acidly.

"Better than usual. Spirits are a good trade when times are bad. The poorer my customers get, the drunker they want to be. If the economy finally tanks, I'll be richer than King Korudo." His bloated face twisted into an expression of appalling glee. "Of course, I owe my enduring success to your father and his generosity."

Several enameled rings already adorned Uncle Haira's fat fingers, an indication that grain prices had taken a plunge in the past season. Although the patriarch, and more recently, Talarin, had developed a deep affection for _van'am, _it seemed implausible that the Urmonaxi clan had cultivated a friendship with such a boorish character.

Uncle Haira offered us a place among the casks and crates that were destined for the market in town. As the truck bounced along the road, we were jolted about mercilessly, and I wondered whether traveling on foot would have been worth the effort. At least, I surmised, we could walk home afterwards.

The motor stopped. " This is as far as we go," said Uncle Haira. " I make a delivery every morning in Three Corners. If you need a ride, I pass the intersection at six sharp." He winked, and jingled the keys to his vehicle." I hope to see you at the start of the planting season."

As the truck rolled away along the main street, I looked out onto the shops with bright awnings and the row of red-brick townhouses with wrought iron gates and wooden window shutters. Although Jann-Run had received his graduate certificate long ago, he still remembered the route to the school. As he led me down the street, he stopped every few paces to gaze wistfully into the darkened display windows and through the garden fences, perhaps hoping for a glimpse of old friends.

At the end of the main street, we joined the assembly of fathers and sons that had begun to cluster around the front doors of the Young Men's School of Greater Urmon. A swarm of youthful faces, some contemplative, some terrified, surrounded me, and I knew that I was not alone in my uncertainties. The boys' fathers, on the contrary, eyed one another viciously.

A voice called out above the chattering of the crowd. _"Order! Order!"_ A lanky senior student with a clipboard stood on the concrete stairs at the entrance to the school, shouting fruitlessly. "_Order! Order!"_ He scowled for a moment and then bellowed_. "The next person who speaks will be disqualified!" _Immediately, there was silence.

The student cleared his throat. " _Bidu, _all, and good morning. If you will all listen carefully, I have a complete list of the examinees and the rooms you have all been assigned to.You be given pens and ink when you receive the test document, so please refrain from asking for them ahead of time." The student looked down at his clipboard, and scratched his nose. " Furthermore, the new headmaster asks that all guardians behave in a civilized manner, so that the sort of incident that occurred _last year _can be avoided."

Several members of the crowd snickered audibly.

"The following examinees are assigned to room seven: Yaxi, Yajisi, Aakagisi, Anivrisi." A line began to form. "Kuurenxi, Kravatsi, Kraxisi."

The school building, with its thick, stone walls and narrow windows seemed increasingly sinister as each examinee was called in turn. While Jann-Run anticipated the sound of our family name with pride, I wanted only to run down the road towards home, where Talarin, Tsi , Kalis and Apuru were enjoying their breakfast without me.

The senior student, thoroughly annoyed, began to read the second page of names.

"The following examinees are assigned to room twenty: Utusi, Uharsi, Ubratanisi Ukrixi, Urtixi, Urmonaxi, Tikisi, Tamittisi, Tagisi, Tarsi, Togonansi, Tsadasi, Tsillasi, Thenxi, Thansi, and Thaksi."

I looked back at Jann-Run as I took my place in line. In the early morning light, he appeared as he had in the light of the bright gas lantern more than two years before. I scanned the panorama of faces in the crowd, twisted with anxiety and dread. Jann-Run stood apart, beaming, as if he alone knew the outcome would be in my favor.

In room twenty, four rows of four thick books with blue tape binding sat waiting on each of four long tables. For each book, there were two pens and one small bottle of black ink. Between every two places, there was a pot of white paint and a brush to correct mistakes. The examinees took their places and fell into four neat rows, forming a square four heads across and four wide. In the dim stillness of room twenty, the creaking of the old ceiling and the rapid breathing of the boy sitting beside me seemed unnaturally loud, the crinkling of paper almost deafening.

A well-meaning amateur calligrapher had pinned a banner above the chalkboard. "_Ra'ak u Rek! Have courage!" _it shouted in jubilant strokes of vermilion red. _"Have courage!"_

At five minutes before eight, a sullen young teacher arrived with a pocketwatch. He counted us, first by twos, and then one at a time. His blue tunic was spattered with chalk dust, and his fair hair, in desperate need of trimming, fell over his perpetually squinting eyes. He spread a dark smudge of ink across his forehead as he attempted to brush away the offending strands. Even his facial tattoos seemed somehow lopsided, an illusion reinforced by an irregular nose and a crooked left eyebrow.

The boys at the front of the room stood up, and those seated behind them followed hesitantly.We all were eager to impress the examiner with our decorum, only to discover that our practiced bows were out of unison and our respectful greeting hardly resonant. "_Bidu, sir,"_ I mumbled. The benches clattered against the table legs as the examinees returned to their places.

The teacher faced the examinees, and produced a thin booklet stamped with the school's insignia. "It is now time for the examination to begin," he explained. "You will have one half-hour to transcribe the passages I will dictate to you, and three hours to answer the written questions posed by the panel. You will be ranked relative to the performance of the other applicants, and then notified of your status before the beginning of the planting season." He dabbed at the ink smudge with his thumb. " Are there any questions? "

A sniffle. The tap of a pen nib against the bottom of the ink bottle. A sigh. The squeak of a boot sole against the tile floor. A cough. The rustle of sixteen cover pages turning. The final tick of a second hand.

The teacher began to read, slowly.

_The young philosopher asks his father, "Who is the ideal man?" _

The pen kissed the paper, steady, even, and pure. In every stroke of ink was a sharpened arrow, a clothesline, and the spreading branches of a tree. In every curve was the graceful turn of the river, the bottom of a fishing boat and the looming shadow of the mountains at sunset. In every angle was the folded corner of a letter, a broken tile and a doorframe. In every spot was a planet, a freckle and a water-worn pebble. In every circle was a rubber tire, a halo and the iris of an eye.

"_Who is the ideal man?"_ repeated the teacher.

I thought of Jann-Run, my father, waiting patiently on the steps for my triumphant emergence. I knew then that the answer did not matter.


End file.
